The little knot of cronies discussed the matter for
a good half-hour, Grim holding tenaciously to a poaching
theory—­pheasants or rabbits—­the
others scouting the idea as next door to the absurd.

“Look here,” said Wilson, brilliantly,
“we’ll track the pair to their earth to-morrow.
If they’re after birds or bunnies I’ll
stand tea all round at Hooper’s.”

“All right,” said Grim. “I’d
like to know about that cartridge.”

On the morrow the suspicious band quietly trotted
out after dinner from St. Amory’s, dressed ostensibly
for a run down Westcote way. Once down the hill
they lay well out in the fields, keeping a sharp watch
through the hedges for their quarry. When they
saw two well-known figures, feet on the rest, coasting
merrily down and head for Westcote, they all drew a
long breath and girded up their loins for the race.

“With luck and the short cuts,” said Grim,
stepping out, “we may just see ’em sneak
into Pettigrew’s woods.”

“And we’ve got a mile in hand too,”
said Wilson.

The cronies ran tightly together, nursing their wind
and keeping well screened from eyeshot from the road,
not that either Acton, or Bourne dreamed that their
afternoon’s run was being dogged by anyone.
From their numerous short cuts the scouts were necessarily
out of view from the road, but they marked the two
cyclists from point to point and themselves headed
up hill and down dale straight for Westcote. They
felt pretty well winded by now, as they stood panting
in a breezy spinney, watching for the appearance of
their quarry on the brown road beneath them.